Full Fathom Five (22 page)

Six months. Kai frowned. “This started, what, eight months back?”

“I can count. And I can feel the seasons change.” He opened his mouth wide, baring yellowed teeth. The point of his left incisor was missing, snapped off, casualty of some God Wars fight. “Eight months it was.”

“Where does he live?”

“Why do you care?” He drank his coffee again in one long gulp, wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and sighed, heavy and wet and sated.

“I want to talk to Mister Margot,” she said, “about faith.”

28

The poet’s street looked no nicer by morning. Same stupid row houses, same slumping newsstand on the corner, same pox of printed tulips on every window’s curtains.

Izza sat against the wall south of the newsstand, hands cupped in her lap. Once in a while she glanced up and down the road with the unfixed, vaguely hopeful expression she wore when begging. Traffic was light, but she got a sliver or two of soul before Cat bought a paper and sat down beside her, cross-legged, paging to the funnies.

“We don’t have these where I’m from,” Cat said. “Surprises a lot of folks when they visit Alt Coulumb. You’d think, big city, big papers, but it ain’t necessarily so.” Her accent slipped into a drawl at the last, as if she were quoting something.

“You’re spoiling my act.”

“You’re not here for the act, kid.” Cat turned the page. “I like this one.”

Izza looked. “It’s not funny.”

“No, it is. It’s funny because their dog, see, it’s really big, so it eats more than the rest of the family.”

“That’s not funny.”

Cat chuckled. “Guess not.” She set down the comics and picked up another section. “Looks like Zolin’s out the next couple of games for giving Kasadoc a concussion. Unnecessary violence, which what that means in a game of ullamal I do not know. Also the Oxulhat police seem to have found three kilos’ worth of dreamdust in her luggage. Doesn’t look good for the Sea Lords. Gods, I love sports. All the excitement of real news, only it doesn’t matter so you don’t have to worry about it.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Getting a grip on current events. What are you doing here?”

“Begging.”

“On this sleepy street? Houses that way, apartments that way, residential for three blocks on both sides. And this part of town isn’t exactly high-rent. Most of the folks who live here leave for work before sunrise. Not a choice spot.”

“I remember a month ago,” Izza said, but Cat interrupted her.

“When I was flat on my back unconscious. Good times.”

“When you couldn’t find your way around this island to save your life.”

“I can learn, you know. Give a girl some credit.”

“You’re not here for the paper.”

“Well,” she said. “You’re not here to beg.”

“You warned me to stay away from Margot last night.”

“And you stormed out and didn’t come back to the warehouse afterward. I had to venture out to scrounge up my own supper.” She laughed. “I figured I struck a chord. Which meant you were as likely to be here as anywhere else.”

“I spoke to him,” Izza said. “He recognized me. He asked about the Blue Lady. I told him the truth.”

Cat nodded, that nod people gave when they had something to say but didn’t want to say it yet. “And?”

“He wanted more, just like the kids. And I still want to get out of here.” She shot a hopeful glance at a passerby, a bearded man wearing boxer shorts, a bathrobe, sandals, and dark glasses. The man dug into his robe pocket, withdrew a folded slip of paper, and dropped it into her cupped hands. Izza said, “Thank you,” waited until he moved on, and looked at what he’d left: an expired library card.

The man waved to Izza from the corner, grinning. She flipped him off in return.

“What did you do when he asked?”

Izza tore the library card into thin strips. “I left him.”

“You’re here,” Cat said, “because you don’t know if you made the right choice.”

Izza waited for the man to leave before she replied. “That’s part of it.”

“What’s the rest?”

“I told you Margot’s name, yesterday, while we talked. I never gave you his address.”

Cat folded the sports section and laid it on top of the funnies. “Plenty of possible explanations for that.”

“You recognized his name. You know where he lives. What’s going on here that I don’t know?”

“Begging’s the wrong line of work for you. Should have been a cop. Or a spy.”

“I never had a chance to choose.”

Cat leaned back against the wall. Her skull met brick with a heavy sound. She closed her eyes, laced her fingers together, and squeezed. “Look. I came here because the local priests don’t let other powers near Kavekana’ai. If you’re on the run from gods and Deathless Kings, this is a great place to hide. That suited me fine: I could lie low, get clean, and leave. Thing is, my old … well. My people back onshore have a, let’s call it a professional interest in this island. There’s not much crime here by mainlander standards because of the Penitents, but the lack of gods and extradition treaties makes Kavekana a spa for all the better kinds of criminal. Those guys who live out on West Claw, puttering around in sandals and flower print shirts, drinking rum punch and playing bad golf—you ever wonder how they got the soulstuff to support that lifestyle?”

“What does that have to do with Margot?”

“He attracted our attention, back onshore. A bard like him, a nobody, a third-rate scrivener, moves to this island of all places and suddenly produces top-flight work. Inspired stuff. That’s a surprise, and surprises are suspicious. I recognized his name when you said it.”

“And remembered his address.”

“I’m good at my job.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Izza said. “He writes a few poems, and gets the gods’ attention?”

“Like I said. It’s hard for mainlanders to learn what happens here. The local priests are thorough, not to mention the Penitents, for proof of which see my ribs and shoulder. So we used to flag anything unusual that happened here, stuff that wouldn’t attract attention anywhere else. Even money was on him being an Iskari spy.”

“He’s a poet.”

“Means nothing. Deathless Kings built a whole literary magazine in Chartegnon back during the God Wars as an intel front.”

“No,” Izza said. “I mean, you haven’t seen his room. I have. He’s a poet. And a hungry one.”

“If you say so.” Cat stood, and Izza had to squint against the brightness of the sky behind her. This would be a hot day. “Yesterday you said I was afraid. You’re right. I’m hiding. I don’t want the kind of attention this guy attracts, and you don’t, either. If I were you, I’d draw the line here. I would have drawn it earlier.”

“I owe him,” Izza said. “I tried to pay it off yesterday, but I only made things worse.”

“I know the feeling. Just think about what your debts might cost you.” Her face twisted as if she’d just swallowed something foul. “I hate the way I sound. This cloak-and-dagger crap. One more reason to get out of the gods’ game while you can, kid.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Being so close to this guy makes my skin crawl. Shouldn’t have come here. Wouldn’t have, but for you.”

“Thanks,” Izza said.

Cat glanced up and down the empty street. “I’ll see you back at home. Think about what I said, please. And watch out.”

“Okay.”

“You can keep the newspaper.” Cat looked as if she were about to say something more, then shook her head, hooked her thumbs through her belt loops, and walked away, shoulders slumped. She glanced back before she turned the corner. Izza thought she saw a flash of teeth between the woman’s lips—the hint of a smile, maybe, at the fact Izza was still watching. Or else a trick of distance and light.

She was too far away to say for certain.

The sun rose, and the day began to burn.

29

The address Mako gave led Kai to a quiet, poor part of the island: rows of tree-divided houses, stucco with highlights in pastel. A Glebland beggar girl crouched at the street corner; she watched Kai with shocking black eyes, and held out an empty hand. Kai dropped a coin into the girl’s palm, invested with a trace of soul, and walked on feeling lighter.

That lightness faded as she climbed the stairs to Margot’s apartment. Blank windows watched her from across the street. The sky hung close and blue above, as if only palm fronds supported it, and those might any moment give way and let the heavens crash. When she reached the second floor, the railing’s dust had stained her fingers black.

Knocking on the purple door yielded no answer. She tried again, louder. Still nothing. Wiped a patch of the door clean of storm scum and pressed her ear to the wood: heavy, slow breathing inside. Margot, asleep.

She should leave. Go to work, and try to corner him later at the Rest, if not tonight then tomorrow or the day after. But the Rest was a public place, and she couldn’t ask him the questions she wanted in public. Might not even be able to ask them in the privacy of his room. Besides, she was fed up with waiting. She struck the door, leaving dirty handprints on the bright purple paint. “M. Margot? Are you in there?”

A groan, a grunt, a cry, a scream. Thrashing amid sheets. The sound of flesh and bone striking a wall. Cursing in Iskari. Kai’s Iskari was rusty, but she thought most of the things he was saying weren’t physically possible, at least for unmodified humans. “M. Margot?”

“Go away.”

“Mako sent me.” A little lie, but Mako would forgive her. “My name is Kai Pohala. We met a few weeks back, at the Rest.”

The door shuddered, and opened a few inches, jerked short by the chain. Margot stared through the gap, one green eye bloodshot, swollen lips pursed. He had the crushed-flower look of a man hung over. “I remember you,” he said. “Go away.”

“I want to talk about your poems.”

“You accused me of stealing.”

“I think you’re in danger.”

He slammed the door. She blinked from the wind of its closing.

“Margot.” She pounded on the door again. “I won’t leave.”

He moaned from the other side. “Enjoy the balcony. Gets hot in the sun. Be careful about the flies. Their bites itch.”

“You treat all your fans this way?”

“You’re not a fan. You look like a Craftswoman.” Scorn on that last word. Typical poet. Typical Iskari.

“
Howl, bound world,
” she said. “Margot, I know where you got those words.”

“Go away.”

“You’re in danger,” she said. “You’re caught in something bigger than you know.”

“Leave me alone.”

“I know why you’ve stopped dreaming.”

The door jerked open again, and again the eye appeared.

“I just want to talk.”

“About poems.”

“About poems,” she said, and nodded.

He closed the door, softer. The chain rattled, and this time the door swung all the way open. “Come inside.”

*   *   *

Margot’s small room was bedchamber, study, and kitchenette combined. His desk, bed, sea chest, and chair occupied most of the floor space, and clutter consumed the rest. Stacked books and newspapers supported mugs of tepid tea. Clothes wadded and piled on the cheap carpet. His few possessions were spread in a thin film over every surface save the desk, which was bare but for leather mat, inkpot, and pen stand in which two pens stood straight. “Apologies for the mess,” Margot said. The man himself looked even sloppier than his room. A red-burned scalp showed through failing mousy hair. He wore a billowing white shirt and green velvet slacks, poorly mended and shiny with age. Toes jutted through the straps of his leather sandals; the hem of his open bathrobe swept against his calves. He swayed, he paced, he turned, never quite looking at her. “I rarely host visitors.”

“More than usual, recently?”

“No.” Too fast for an honest answer, but she didn’t want to press him on this, when she had to press him on so much else.

“M. Margot,” Kai said. “You were wrong, before, when you called me a Craftswoman. I am a priest.”

“Of what god?”

“Of no gods,” she said. “I’m a priest of Kavekana’ai.”

“I know your Order,” Margot said, “by reputation. Purveyors of false faith and strained promises.”

“We’re not so bad once you get to know us,” she said. “I think you’re in trouble. I think I can help you. But I need to hear your story first.”

Margot turned and fixed her with a bright, hungry stare. Again, she remembered her mother’s advice about drowning men. He began to pace again, hands stuffed in the pockets of his ratty robe. He didn’t try to kick her out, though. A good sign.

“You’re blocked,” she said. “You haven’t written new poems in months.”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

He chuckled, meanly. “Never ask a poet to tell you the truth. We have ten different ways to describe a drink of water, and each is true and all lie.” With his toe he nudged a crumpled shirt on the dirty carpet. “This room says all you need to know.”

“You can think of ten ways to describe a glass of water. I can think of ten paths a man could take to this room. Which one’s yours?”

He lifted the shirt and tossed it in a hamper. The circle of revealed white carpet glared up at them like a glaucomic eye. “My path’s the one walked by a man who lived a good life in southern Iskar, a minor functionary in the troubadour’s guild, who wrote poems in his free hours and shuffled paper the rest of the day. Wine with friends on Sixthday and snatches of verse in university magazines, that was me. Couplets written in the odd hours between sleep and waking. I had a wife, until she ran off with a marine from Telomere. I took leave of my office and came to Kavekana, to live in solitude and write. I meant to go home a few weeks later. I would have gone home.”

“But you found something.”

“Words took fire in my brain.”

“More than words.”

He nodded. “My Lady. My queen. My muse.”

Kai felt as if a trickle of cold water had been poured down the inside of her spine. “Tell me.”

“In the first few weeks after I came here, I felt something scrape at the glass of my mind. Panic, I thought. You know that I was.” He swallowed. “Attacked. Mako may have told you.”